I am with the curator of Andre Kertész's estate. The estate has determined that Kertész's body must be exhumed and moved to another location. I'm in the backseat of a van. We begin driving through the Hungarian countryside to his burial plot. When we arrive, the curator exits the van and pulls out two shovels. We begin digging. After some time, I hear my shovel crack loudly as it hits the casket. We clear out the surrounding area. The curator and I each grab a side and pull up, groaning against the weight. We finally lift the casket out of the plot and onto the surrounding grass. With a crowbar, the curator opens it. Kertész's remains are inside, wrapped in a towel covering his feet to his chin. A CPR mask covers his nose and mouth, sitting deep into his rotten flesh.

The curator and I lift Kertész and place him into the back of the van. We miscalculated. The curator slams the van's back door into Kertész, digging into his face and sending green chunks of decomposed skin and flesh everywhere. As we stare in horror, his face begins oozing thick, yellow pus.